Imagination

"Imagination is the one weapon in the war against reality."

I stumbled upon this quote from French philosopher Jules de Gaultier and was immediately put off. How morbidly unwise. But in learning that de Gaultier was an afficianado of Flaubert's Madame Bovary, We must interpret that he is referring to escapist imagination and the war against circumstance. As always, with our language of duality, what is true is also false - and vice versa - as you alter the context. This is why, when I find myself in a conversation bearing some hope for usefulness, I attempt to take it to the most universal of perspectives.

In my undeniable living experience I look at all that I once thought was reality and see that it is all illusion. All that I now experience to be true, I never would have discovered without imagination.

Imagination is absolutley key in the war of reality. But it is on reality's side; not against.

Self-fulfilling Prophecies

As I ponder the spectre of terrorism and the wildly intangible idea that it is threatening to steal our freedom; as I ponder the ludicrousness of speeches from the mouths of presidents and political leaders and how the quotient of propaganda and fear-mongering becomes ever-more obvious and detectable with the passage of time and the opportunity for informed reflection; as I ponder the mounting incontrovertible evidence of torture committed by the American military machine in Bagram, Abu Grayb and Guantanamo Bay; as I ponder the inconceivable numbers: 83,000 "suspected terrorists" abducted. Zero brought to trial for terrorist acts; as I ponder the joke in that idea that torture and the trampling of privacy and constitutional rights are somewhat okay as a temporary war time measure - oh - oh my sides - as if a war against ghosts is temporary - as if it will ever - ever - end; and as I ponder the incredible volume of hatred, outrage and the conviction that America is evil, surely held by the friends and families of each of those 83,000 detainees, not to mention those of all the dead who were at the wrong place at the wrong time when the war on terror came to town - I must ask myself:

Is the American military complex - so hugely financially profitable to all those individuals behind it, really out there hunting for terrorists? Or are they just manufacturing them?

Just asking.

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Seeing anybody?

I am endlessly amused by every one's fascination with my relationship status.

"Seeing anybody?" is one of the first questions I get whenever I encounter a friend for the first time in a while. To me, it's a silly question. How can you think you know me and yet ask something so inappropriate?

But I know why. People ask me this because they care about me and are locked into the assumption that this is some significantly relevant factor toward my personal happiness. People believe in their fundamental normalcies. In a society where things are labelled legitimate not because they are sane, logical and truthful but because they are the norm, few question the legitimacy of the Western world's marriage/relationship model, which truly, can not be said to be legitimate or not. To be truthful, you have to break it down into its many components and judge them individually.

I can not support this all-pervading relationship model for many reasons. The mandatory reciprocity component goes against my personal instincts. Some components create flawed expectations and demand phony behaviour to compensate. Some demand exclusivity which become barriers to maximizing the other relationships in my life. And mostly, it fails to incorporate what is to me the most profound kind of love in existence that I know of - the state of radiating lovingness.

Surely there are useful components to the standard model: Financial security; stability; a useful framework within which children can be raised; the promise that you will not be left alone. And perhaps most notably: The feeling of having someone or something special.

But allow me to play devil's advocate:

Unfortunately all these good things above are to varying degrees tainted when I view them from outside the matrix of illusions. The level of financial circumstance we think we need is unnecessary, greedy, corrupt and undeserved when viewed from the global, not national, perspective. Stability is a solution to a problem that is largely illusory to begin with, and on the balance, one that stems from the very mindset that suppresses organic love and promotes marriage to begin with. There have been cultures in which children were raised more by communities then parents. Akin to the superior health of cross-bred dogs, might not such children emerge healthier mentally; freer from the particular biases and derelict views of the biological parents and exposed to greater volumes of ideas and with a capacity for choice? No matter. The biochemical programming that binds parents to children is currently far too powerful to mess with. Let's not even discuss the illusions that stem from it.
With regards to the remainder of the pro-marriage list, let me offer my own living experience; that from a marriage-type relationship that failed in its thirteenth year. Yes it failed ultimately but it was a successful, non-failing relationship for twelve years; full of good times and bad times; loving, fighting, negotiating and compromising.

Yet these days I am less alone. I'm surrounded by special people. And I am more guaranteed to not be alone precisely because I do not put all my eggs in one basket. I do not live in fear that divorce will topple my life. And there is no jealousy present within my home to temper my adorations with-out.

People in healthy marriages feel they are so lucky, their partner so special, partly because - well maybe those partners are! But partly because of the barren emotional landscape they were accustomed to prior. We come from an ass-backward society that says No, you can't love her. She's not the correct age. No, you can't love him, He's not the correct gender. No, you can't love her because she's already obligated to a relationship contract. No, You can't love her because you're already bound to a relationship contract. No, she's too rich. No, she's too poor. No. Wrong race. Wrong religion. Wrong social class.

No! You can't love her because she doesn't love you back!

How much organic love is suppressed because of our mandatory reciprocity model? 95%? 99%? And where it isn't, where someone brave speaks out - well, they're just creepy. You're a creep if you love when you're not supposed to. Shame on you.

Well, I don't listen to those rules anymore. If you know me personally, you might just want to watch the hell out. I might just say I love you any time now!

Am I saying marriage is wrong? No. If you feel marriage is right for you and yours, go for it. I will gladly come to the ceremony and celebrate your love. I'll even surrender a wad of cash and be oddly touched by your in-laws' goofy speeches. But if you dare to put me on the podium you will receive from me a healthy dose of loving sincerity; not an embarrassing good-time anecdote.

What I'm saying is that marriage should be understood for what it is and what the sacrifices are and most importantly - that your marriage is yours to custom design. Allow for organic legitimacy. Don't demand to be the number-one partner for all of a hundred categories every day. Don't redeem your contractual promise to be loved every day. Instead, earn it.

Novel: Anthem of a Reluctant Prophet

Despite a single mystical element this work is solid literary fiction with a special appeal for youth. At forty-two, I found it meaningful and thoroughly worthwhile. Kids as young as twelve find it compelling and appropriate although some of their parents may unfortunately not be ready for the abundant street language and sexual references, all of which, Proulx handles responsibly, tastefully and with a healthy respect for genuine reality. How she captures the voice of one rough-around-the-edges teenage boy so convincingly is a marvel and to her significant credit. This itself becomes the style of the book.

Like so many of the best stories this one tracks a character with clear flaws through a period of crisis; a period of transition in life. Will 17-year-old Luke ovecome his significant obstacles; so many of his own creation, and emerge a better person?

Startlingly real characters, heart-wrenching moments, sharp humour, and some very useful wisdom around the legitimacy of death and the profound miraculousness of life. It's one of those great and noble books that is finally noticed as such when you get to the end. Great read. Valuable experience. Thank you Joanne!

Book: Year Million: Science at the Far Edge of Knowledge

(2008, editor Damien Broderick)

Here are fourteen essays by leading scientists and science writers who were asked to predict the look of human existence come the year one-million. Their responses are consistent: The task is impossible but the exercise in trying provides a remarkable wealth of material to ponder for those more interested in the question, who are we, than who will win American Idol. They write with generous restraint, allowing the reader to ponder ramifications and ask the big questions for themselves.

Dougal Dixon's non-partisan perspectives on carbon dioxide cycles bring some clarity to the contentious global warming arena. Wil McCarthy's handling of matters concerning the rarity of life and of intelligent life and the scope of cosmic time and distance are of critical relevance to the alien question. Journalist Jim Holt delves into the nature of mathematics. Fundamental reality or human invention?

Amara D. Angelica explores the digital and analog natures of all things and probes the inherent compatibility of computers, human beings and galaxies while Robert Bradbury and Rudy Rucker "debate" the eventual restructuring of star systems into inhabitable super computers versus the eventual rejection of computers as humans meld with the computation of nature itself.

For those with a view to the parasitic nature of mankind's dominance over the earth, beware of Robin Hanson's treatment on the plausibility and rapidity of space colonization.

Dr. Steven B. Harris's insights into evolution leave apparent the gaping flaws in any notion of grand design theory while he, Pamela Sargent and Anne Corwin delve into biological science and technology, promoting an inevitable confrontation with polymorphability and immortality. Meanwhile Sean M. Carroll, Gregory Benford and George Zebrowski arouse the greatest life-or-death question of all, exploring the troubling matter of entropy and the fate of the universe.

A brilliant collection.

My Roger Weekend

In October 2009, Roger of Rogers WoodWorks created what I call, the Roger's Weekend. He took on a hefty to-do list and surprised himself by getting through 75% of it. I vowed I would emulate him and dedicate a weekend to getting caught up on my own list of life's annoying little chores (along with some properly useful projects).

Being one of the premier lazy bastards of the entire worldwide community of lazy bastards, it took me only a year and a half to get around to this.

And being one of the premier lazy bastards of the worldwide community of lazy bastards, it took me only half of day one to get around just to announcing my intention, which is this:

My list:

- clean bedroom
- clean bathroom
- clean out truck
- replace spare tire
- laundry
- return library materials
- reserve cargo van
- download borrowed music
- settle "herb and wine" arrangements
- settle cottage arrangements
- email study materials to Neo
- required reading and prep for young readers club
- editing and lesson plan for young writers group
- vacuum and sweep house
- shampoo carpet
- write review for book Year Million
- recreate lost outline for novel-in-progress The One
- create budget spreadsheet
- blog (Saturday - this not included!)
- blog (Sunday)
- walk (Saturday)
- walk (Sunday)
- post another song on the web
- organize and backup writing and music files
- check blood pressure
- finish mind-mapping the poetic compendium (don't ask)
- update resume
- create online questionnaire
- order a SCENE card
- update song journal
- finish lyrics, arrangement for song Indescribable
- finish composing Down Slide and give it a better title
- finish composing He's All Right Now
- Learn to play fave Beetles tunes Strawberry Fields, Ticket to Ride and Day in the Life

Oh yeah - So why now after 19 months?

'Cause the three shifts I was scheduled to work this weekend got cancelled because of my request to drop from full-time back onto the spare-board finally going through yesterday and I found myself with a wide open schedule and no socializing to do on account of having a cold I don't want to share and having, all day yesterday, accomplished absolutely nothing other than a long series of naps and the watching of a couple really dumb movies. I was starting to feel kind of useless.

Okay. Got to go. Got stuff to do.

What if there was never anything?

I have no idea where I'm going with this. Just a dumb question in my head.

So we live in this thing called a universe which is so freaking big it's beyond our comprehension to grasp just how mind-blowingly big it is. It's so big it's just stupid.

And whether it exploded from God's hand or because that's just what universes do; both perfectly equal mysteries if you think about it, it's pretty obvious that we live in the aftermath of an explosion.

But what if it had never happened?

Well that's easy. If it hadn't happened we wouldn't be here. Simple. But is it? If there were no gods, no explosions, no universe or universes - what would there be?

Well there'd be nothing. Ever. Simple.

Why does this not work?

I can not, no matter how I try - imagine a reality that is utterly vacant of time and space and matter. It is strictly unimaginable. I can not admit such a scenario possible yet I can not offer a shred of explanation. It's like I'm a robot programmed not to question it's prime directive. There's just a blank wall. I try to process the idea of there never existing anything and I'm left with a disctinct impression that such a concept is strictly impossible. But I haven't the first idea how to prove it nor the notion that it's a correct presumption to start with. Surely anything that can exist can also not exist. But take away everything and what are you left with?

Nothing.

It makes sense and yet it just can't be imagined. Is that how everyone feels?

For that matter, what happens at the perimeter of the universe? WHat's after that? Nothing? Well what does that mean? What if you drill a hole into the nothing? Do you even get a hole?

Frankly, it's hard to imagine a perimeter to the universe.

I guess you'd never get close to the universe's perimeter given how fast it expands. But what if it's going to collapse again? What happens after the Big Crunch? Another explosion? What exists between the moment of final contraction and the next bang? Nothing?

It's a popular theory - that the universe continually bangs and crunches; cyclically expanding and contracting, almost like a beating heart, locked in a constant battle against the nothingness.

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Postscript: I wrote this some time ago before I realized that the big crunch theory is swiftly losing popularity as evidence mounts that the universe is expanding at an accellerating rate. This news struck me as hard as any news ever has, including the death of loved ones. It was comforting to think of a renewable cosmos where life, human or otherwise, could exist, if intermittantly, at least eternally. An eternity of equillibrium however, with every particle of matter isolated by light-years of darkness - is the coldest thing I've ever contemplated.

March of the Pines

I really don't have any use for Easter or for birthdays but I gave mom a card with an astronaut on the front, congratulating her on her successful mission to Pluto, and spent two days at the parents' place to celebrate. It had once been my grandparents' place and I'd spent portions of my childhood summer holidays there. Today mom and I went for a walk around the property but I suppose I was not entirely present.

Of the six-paned window of the spring house, one pane remains. I remember when they'd built that raised hut to shelter the old bathtub that received the fresh spring water piped in from it's remote source. I'd used the remaining materials, and more scavenged from the barn, to build a ridiculous little fort of my own. It's any one's guess now, which bits of debris might once have been part of that little endeavor.

Inside the hut, old Uncle Ernie's mug still hangs from a nail above the outlet pipe. I remember his 96th birthday party at the village recreation hall. He'd looked down at me and couldn't remember who I was.

I've never seen the old tub before, not brimming with water, the constant overflow splashing into the pond of its own making; source of a winding stream that turned the non-tilled low-elevation north-west field into a myriad wetland; home of ducks, frogs and fireflies. Now the White Pines have taken over. They grow and proliferate like weeds, turning the scrub field into a little forest home for coyotes. The tub sits empty but for a dark layer of sediment. Staring at the pipe I finally catch the fall of a single drip.

From the doorway I look down at the dry bed outside. I used to pry large rocks from the ground and hurl them in to the little pond. The splash they'd made was nothing compared to the one that followed. Cocoa would leap in after them, submerge his head and bound joyfully out again with the slimy rock clamped in his jaws. We'd do it again and again. Later we'd return to the house, wet and green and smelling like algae and grandma would give the dog hell for going in the "crick" but he didn't care after all the fun we'd had.

One wing of the two-storey bank barn is gone now; collapsed and hauled away after too many years of wind and rain. The remainder is a patch-work of expensive repairs. Inside I spy a few remaining relics from childhood memory but we don't stray too far. It's dangerous with the floor rotting away. The warnings have come. The barn's days are numbered. It is just a facade now; something to block the view of the suburban style housing development that now looms on one horizon; something to preserve the feeling of a country sanctuary that is starting to become an illusion.

Returning to the house we pass the row of maples that have matched Uncle Ernie in their longevity. They're beginning to fall apart. My favorite one; the one I once climbed religiously; the one we'd fixed with rope and bucket so I could eat my lunch in the sky - is the first to go. Even the stump has been burned away.

For the moment I feel like a boy made old too suddenly.

Inside the house, the only man who deserves to be called my father is thinking about hawks and turkey vultures. "Did you see anything?" he asks.

"Just the sobering passage of time," I say.

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Food Glorious Food

Tomorrow I'll receive my first paycheque in well over a month. Well - it'll be half a paycheque strictly speaking but it'll feel like a fortune.

Through the last week and a half I expected to finally be testing the weight-loss effectiveness of the good old-fashioned starvation diet but it never quite evolved as such. Two different co-workers each invited me over to dinner and one sent me home again with a bucket of delicious leftovers. Another slipped me a box of crackers for no apparent reason. Another dumped a handful of winning Tim Hortons food prize tabs into my hands along with the lame excuse he wouldn't use them. And coworker number five asked me frankly if I needed to borrow some cash and then handed over a tidy stack of twenties.

As I see us all coveting our jobs, fearing unemployment, belittling ourselves before our so-called superiors, working overtime (itself a significant contributor to unemployment if you think about it), distancing ourselves from our children, etc., in order to "make a living" or some overblown facsimile thereof - it's interesting to me, speaking cautiously and subjectively of course, in the wake of my own personal experience: that it's pretty hard to actually starve to death around here.

song: The Line

Not my newest song but a recent one. Like the many primary stages in life and life's endeavors that I have initially skipped but later returned to, experiencing them from an atypically mature standpoint, I missed the whole major G-C-D chord phase through my first two years of songwriting exploration. Lately I have been enjoying its lively simplicity. After catching a little flack for using 'I walk the line' as the song's chorus, I considered changing the title to "Johnny Cash Can Kiss My Ass" but settled finally on simply "The Line." I have a proper USB mic now which improves the sound quality very much and reveals the ample imperfections of my sorry excuse for a singing voice quite sufficiently. ...................... ................................. ............................. ..................................

FWG is still alive...

... just hasn't had proper internet access since November 2010, making blog-posting rather a pain in the butt. Articles have been piling up on my own computer while I borrow others' every once in a while to access the net, all the while ignoring the existence of jump drives, flash drives, USB sticks and USB keys - which I suspect are all precisely the same thing. Can someone please pick a term and lets stick with it? Honestly, you elite tech developers are coming dangerously close to joining the lawyers, politicians, auto mechanics and white rappers who will have their corpses dragged through the streets on the Glorious Day Of Purification.

Anyhoo... this is my promise that I shall somehow persevere and start posting regularly again - yes, as if I have any credibility on that matter and as if anyone was actually around to read this.

And that's all I'll say for now because one of the dobermans that comes with the laptop I'm currently using, won't stop playing "Look-I'm-a-Rubber-Chicken" and trying to flop on my head. I'm not even kidding. He's a complete freak.

Oh - but I was kidding about Purification Day. No such thing as far as I know. And I don't support the practice of corpse dragging at all. I also don't support use of the word anyhoo but I thought I should try it once just to be sure.

Later,

NDR

Novel: The Convicts

2005 (Iain Lawrence)

Captivating. Starts out at a breakneck pace, leaping from one improbable Dickensian circumstance to another before settling into a sustained bout of ever more depressing downturns.

A grilling emotional swamp-ride of a book that took me by surprise when it ended with so few questions being answered. I hadn't realized it is "part one" of a self-proclaimed trilogy. In fact it is not a trilogy by any respectful use of the English language but is one-third a story published in separate slim books as our greedy shallow marketplace-driven society produces so much of.

Lawrence proves a very competent storyteller though, with vibrant characters and much more engaging subtlety than you usually find in tween fic. I am forced to read "book two" whether the young readers group wishes to or not!